The rain hadn't stopped since evening. A small figure sat curled on the edge of his bed, his knees drawn to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of water against the windows. His mother used to tell him that rain was a good thing, that it meant the world was being washed clean. She had stopped saying that a long time ago.
His father was rarely home. When he was, his doors stayed shut, and the voices beyond them were low and unfamiliar. The adults spoke in tones meant to be unheard. "I didn't do anything wrong," the boy whispered, his voice barely louder than the storm. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, watching the rain blur the lights outside. The ache in his chest felt too big for a child his age.
If guardian angels exist, he wondered, do they forget some people?
High above the rain-soaked city, where thunder rolled unheard by human ears, another realm watched in silence. An angel stood at the edge of the clouds, his gaze fixed downward. He had been watching the boy for a long time now. "Why hasn't his request been granted?" the angel murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. "He asks for so little."
Angels gathered in a circle, some towering, some small, their wings shimmering in silver, gold, and muted gray. "He's crying again," muttered one angel, a tall figure whose wings glimmered like frost. "Humans," another sneered. "Always so fragile."
The Master's voice cut through the murmurs. "His thread is weakening. One must descend to protect him." There was a long pause and silence for a while. The angels shifted uneasily, their feathers brushing against one another.
"Who will go?," said one, his wings trembling. "You know the cost. To descend… it's a demotion. To live as one of them, in their fragile bodies… we risk everything."
"Exactly," another hissed. "I won't go. I refuse to give up what little time we have. And it's not my place anyway!"
The Master's gaze swept the assembly. "Someone will go. There is no alternative."
A few angels whispered among themselves, their wings fidgeting. Then a small, pale figure stepped forward. She had faintly iridescent feathers, soft and slightly imperfect. Not as tall as the others or even as powerful.
"She?" one of the senior angels spat, pointing at her. "She's barely ranked, she's weak. She watches too much already. Not fit for this duty."
"She's beautiful, though," another added. "Which makes it even more obvious she won't survive it."
The pale angel's heart raced against her chest. "I… I can do it! I'll go. I can protect him!"
A chorus of laughter rang through the clouds. "You? You don't even have your wings fully formed. You are not even fit, what are you trying to prove?"
"Do you want to die young?" another snapped. "Do you even understand what descending means?"
She hesitated, her hands curling at her sides. "I… I can't just do nothing. I… I won't let him—"
"Silence," said the Master. His voice was calm, absolute, and final. The circle of angels parted instinctively, pointing. All of them, unanimous, saying without words; If she chooses to be mortal, then let her go.
She swallowed, trying to protest again. "I… I don't care if I'm not ready. I'll go!"
"But she doesn't know what she's giving up!" one angel yelled. "Her memories! Her place! She'll be a child among humans, trapped, powerless—"
The Master's hand lifted, and the argument died instantly. "She will go," he said in a final tone, no one dared to argue again.
The pale angel's chest tightened, fear and resolve battling inside her. She opened her mouth—tried to speak, wanting to ask her final questions—but no one was listening anymore.
Rain continued to fall, relentless, drowning streetlights in a blur of orange and silver. Donato Rinaldi's car, black and armored, followed the lead vehicle in the convoy, its engine humming low, and the tires splashing through puddles. He exhaled a puff of smoke, the tip of his cigarette glowing red in the darkness, his eyes hidden under the brim of his hat.
The call had taken longer than expected — a meeting with a supplier who owed them money. Suddenly the car halted. "Why aren't they moving?" Donato asked, his voice a bit sharp.
Through the earpiece, the driver inquired from the driver at the front. "Sir… there's a small figure on the road ahead. A little girl… she's soaking wet and looks abandoned."
Donato narrowed his eyes. "This might be a trap" His cigarette trembled slightly as he tapped ash into the rain. "Tell them to proceed cautiously."
"Yes, sir," the driver replied. The driver in the first vehicle came out, lifted its umbrella, scanning the drenched street. The girl lay alone on the floor, her hair plastered to her face, with no clothes on. She was small and trembling under the rain. She looked up, her eyes widened. She remained utterly silent, and the officers in the lead car stiffened.
"She's… alone, sir," one said. "No one around. Could be—"
"Could be a setup from Marconi," Donato interrupted, cutting them off. "Bundle her in the booth. Fast. Stay alert."
The driver hesitated, then obeyed. They guided the girl carefully into the armored vehicle's booth. Donato watched from the window, his cigarette dangling, his eyes flicking between the girl and the road ahead. Something about her—the way she didn't scream or run, just… stood there—made him frown. Not usual for a street child and definitely not normal at all.
"Move," he muttered, and the convoy started again, their tires hissing through puddles.
In the car booth, she clụched herself, shivering, unsure of who she was or what her name was.
Donato didn't know it yet, that she wasn't just a child in the rain. She was there for his son.